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“This,” Akutagawa declares, the moment Atsushi is within earshot, “is a terrible idea.”
He appraises Atsushi with a critical arch to his brow, and Atsushi can’t help but squirm under the scrutiny. Fine, his gray parka has clear signs of wear, unlike Akutagawa’s immaculate wool pea coat, and his gloves are a simple knit material in contrast to Akutagawa’s rich black leather, but he doesn’t think he looks that bad. At least, he felt that way upon leaving the house this evening. But it’s different under Akutagawa’s gaze. He has a way of staring right through Atsushi that, despite the volume of people bustling down the crowded sidewalk, makes Atsushi feel as if they’re the only two people in the world.
“Take it up with Dazai,” Atsushi shoots back. “This is all his master plan. You want to complain to someone, complain to him.”
Akutagawa glares, but Atsushi stares him right back, refusing to waver. For just a moment, a strange, disarmed expression flashes across Akutagawa’s face, but it passes as quickly as it came, and he abruptly turns on his heel and begins down the sidewalk. Atsushi has to jog a few steps to catch up to him.
“Fine,” Akutagawa manages through clenched teeth. “We’re sticking to the plan. But that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”
The plan, as Dazai concocted it, goes like this.
An Ability User capable of causing mass hallucinations has been wreaking havoc in Yokohama. The suspect targets large gatherings of people, and Ranpo deduced that the next attack would happen on Saturday evening at the city’s biggest Christmas market. Atsushi and Akutagawa are to stake out the market and apprehend the Ability User.
It’s all pretty standard stuff, even the collaboration between the Agency and the Port Mafia – these days, they run more missions together than separately. But then, as he is wont to do, Dazai veered things wildly off-course.
“The two of you need to go undercover.” Dazai then paused for dramatic emphasis, before concluding grandly, “as a couple.”
“What?” Akutagawa and Atsushi demanded in near-perfect unison.
“Look at you, so synchronized already!” Dazai cooed. “This cover will be a piece of cake!”
Atsushi had begged. He’d pleaded. He’d bargained and debated and then begged some more. But Dazai was unyielding. It’s Christmas, he’d pointed out over and over. Their cover as a couple would be more believable than anything else.
So, in full candor, Atsushi is no happier about this plan than Akutagawa. But he’s not going to spend the whole evening sulking about being forced out on a pretend date with him. Atsushi can’t say many positive things about his upbringing, but at the very least, he was raised to have some manners.
But when the Christmas market comes into full view, Atsushi’s annoyance is completely forgotten. In its place is a pure, overwhelming awe. The lights of the booths are bright against the dark evening, the air is rich with the scent of pine and spice, and strains of warm music carry over the chatter of the crowd.
“Close your mouth, Weretiger, or you’ll catch flies,” Akutagawa scolds.
But Atsushi couldn’t hide his wonder if he tried.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
A scowl comes over Akutagawa’s face, and it looks like he’s about to say something snide, but he bites his lip and swallows down hard.
“It’s certainly festive,” he manages.
Atsushi hardly hears him. He’s halfway down the path already, eager to start exploring the market.
For as much as Atsushi’s life has changed in his time with the Armed Detective Agency, the shadow of his childhood looms, ever-present. He’ll still, on occasion, ignore a sharp pang of hunger, trying to will it away through sheer determination, until he remembers that he’s allowed to eat whenever he needs to now. He hasn’t yet schooled himself out of flinching whenever he hears a door slam. And for someone who only began celebrating things like birthdays and holidays a few short years ago, the beauty of a Christmas market still overwhelms him.
“We should get hot chocolate,” Atsushi declares, scanning the vendors before settling on a small tent offering steaming paper cups to grateful, cold-flushed customers.
Atsushi orders two hot chocolates, both with whipped cream, pays, and hands one over to Akutagawa.
“I’m not carrying your drink for you,” Akutagawa gripes.
When Atsushi merely stares at him, nonplussed, he continues.
“You wanted two drinks? You have two hands. Carry them yourself.”
Atsushi can’t help it; he laughs, sharp and startled.
“I didn’t buy myself two drinks. One of them is for you, obviously.”
“What? Why?”
The sheer disbelief in Akutagawa’s tone is enough to give Atsushi pause.
“Well, because I…”
But Atsushi trails off, only now realizing that he isn’t quite sure of his answer. He bought the hot chocolate because it’s warm and good, and because he wants Akutagawa to be warm, and to have good things. Because he knows Akutagawa likes chocolate, even if he’d never admit it, and because he won’t allow himself that sort of frivolity, the duty falls to Atsushi. Because that’s what it feels like, caring for Akutagawa. It feels like a duty. Like a calling. Because for all their bickering and their differences and their complicated past, he wants Akutagawa to be happy. And he wants to be the person who made it so.
“It wouldn’t be polite, only getting one for myself,” Atsushi concludes, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. His heart is slamming against his sternum like a caged animal, desperate to escape the confines of his chest.
I love him, he realizes, with a certainty and clarity that seem to sharpen the edges of everything around him, pulling the whole world into exquisite focus. I love Akutagawa.
Now, Atsushi’s visceral but inexplicable resistance to Dazai’s proposed plan at last makes sense. Of course he wouldn’t want to spend an evening pretending to be a couple with Akutagawa. The only pain greater than wanting what he’ll never have is having it for one night and never again.
Beside him, Akutagawa makes a soft but sharp noise. Atsushi at last breaks from his reverie.
“Burnt my tongue,” Akutagawa mutters, wrinkling his nose as he glares at the hot chocolate.
It’s all Atsushi can do not to kiss him stupid.
Atsushi can be such a child.
A long time ago, Akutagawa would have meant it derisively. He’d complain that Atsushi was weak. Naive. Entirely dependent on others.
Now, when he compares Atsushi to a child, it’s for his goodness. For his open, unguarded heart.
For the sheer wonder with which he approaches every booth at the Christmas market, just as delighted as the time before.
Akutagawa quickly tires of the tables all selling the same sort of tacky trinkets, but he doesn’t tire of watching Atsushi. He chats amiably with the vendors, patiently listens to them attempt to sell him their wares, and manages to find something to admire in every kitschy knickknack he examines.
But it’s not until he comes across a table selling handmade mittens, scarves, and hats that he actually tries to purchase anything.
He’s clearly enamored with a soft black scarf, rubbing the material between his fingers almost reverently. Akutagawa is well aware of the circumstances of Atsushi’s childhood; softness is no doubt still a novelty to him. But when he turns it over to check the price tag, he visibly pales.
Now, he treats the scarf with caution rather than reverence, carefully setting it down and folding it back up as neatly as he can manage. He tries to mumble an apology to the vendor, likely an explanation that the scarf is beyond his means, and that’s when Akutagawa steps in.
He doesn’t know why, only that he’s compelled by some unseen, unnameable force. Akutagawa pulls a handful of bills out of his wallet and slams them down on the table harder than he intended. Atsushi jumps at the sudden movement, regarding him with visible confusion.
“What are you doing?”
Akutagawa ignores him, instead speaking to the vendor, a middle aged woman with dark hair in a long, thick braid.
“Is that enough? For the scarf.”
The woman regards Akutagawa carefully, and finally nods, counting the money and giving Akutagawa his change and the scarf, folded up and nestled in a small silver gift bag. Akutagawa thanks her and walks away, not waiting for Atsushi. When he finally catches up to Akutagawa, his brow is deeply furrowed and the corners of his mouth threaten a frown.
“What just happened?” he asks.
In truth, Akutagawa knows the answer. There’s a part of him, larger than he’d like to admit, that relishes providing for Atsushi. That part wants nothing more than to fulfill Atsushi’s every desire, to ensure that he is always comfortable and cared for. And that part craves the warm, slightly bewildered smile that comes over Atsushi’s face whenever Akutagawa picks up the bill at dinner or offers Atsushi a spare umbrella in the rain.
“We’re supposed to be a couple, aren’t we?” Akutagawa answers. “What sort of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t get you a Christmas gift?”
But that smile, the one Akutagawa yearns for so desperately, doesn’t appear on Atsushi’s face. Instead, his frown only deepens.
“Did you even look at the price? I can’t accept a gift like that from you.”
A hot wave of frustration overwhelms Akutagawa and he unfolds the scarf, grabs Atsushi by the shoulders, and wraps it around his neck, looping it just so. With one hand still grabbing the ends of the scarf, he pulls, bringing Atsushi just a half-step too close.
“Yes,” he counters, hand still fisted in the scarf, “you can.”
Atsushi’s eyes go wide, and the short, white puffs of his breath in the cold air abruptly stop. His gaze flicks to Akutagawa’s lips, then back up to his eyes, and for a brief, impossible moment, Akutagawa is half-convinced Atsushi is going to kiss him.
But then the moment passes, and Atsushi removes Akutagawa’s hand from his scarf and takes a step back.
“Okay, fine,” he mutters, eyes trained on the ground. “You’ve been acting weird all evening, though.”
“Have I?”
Atsushi visibly takes a deep, bracing breath, and then nods.
“Yeah. I mean, if you’re so concerned about not blowing our cover, you’ve got a funny way of showing it. You’ve just been standing beside me with your arms crossed and a scowl on your face. Not really romantic Christmas behavior.”
“I see,” Akutagawa replies, not exactly sure where Atsushi is going with all of this, until he reaches down and takes Akutagawa’s gloved hand in his own, his face grimly determined.
“This is much more convincing,” he manages, still unable to meet Akutagawa’s eyes, which is fortunate, really, because Akutagawa isn’t sure he could look at Atsushi, either.
“Very well,” Akutagawa says at last. “I will agree that this better suits our cover.”
All he can do now is hope that the layers of gloves between them will prevent Atsushi from feeling the pounding of his heart through his palm.
Now that Akutagawa’s hand is in Atsushi’s, the stilted awkwardness of their earlier performance evaporates, leaving in its stead an intimacy so natural Atsushi almost believes it’s real. He drags Akutagawa from booth to booth by the hand, grinning and laughing, and Akutagawa follows obligingly. The scarf around Atsushi’s neck is so soft, and the last dregs of his hot chocolate are so sweet, and Akutagawa’s hand is so solid in his own.
And then the December’s first snow begins to fall, first in small flurries, then in large, wet flakes that melt on his cheeks and nose, and Atsushi is struck by the sudden, impossible desire to stop time. If he could, he’d seal this moment away in a snowglobe, like he’d seen for sale at so many of the booths. Just this moment, stretching on for eternity, the snowfall beginning again and again whenever he shook the globe, he and Akutagawa as static figures within it, unmoving, unchanging. Hand in hand, forever.
Atsushi turns to Akutagawa, about to remark on the snowfall, but stops when he sees the strangest expression on Akutagawa’s face. It’s half-satisfaction, half-starvation, his eyes wide and warm and hungry.
“Weretiger,” Akutagawa begins.
Atsushi waits expectantly, but Akutagawa doesn’t continue. Instead, he merely steps closer, and brings up a thumb to caress the very edge of Atsushi’s eyelid.
“The snowflakes get caught in your eyelashes,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Atsushi, and wipes another away.
And Atsushi simply can’t hold back a moment longer. Akutagawa’s thumb against his eyelashes isn’t enough; it isn’t even close. He needs him everywhere. Atsushi is so cold, but Akutagawa’s hands would be hot as a brand against the winter chill, and his mouth would be hotter still. Atsushi could be enveloped in Akutagawa, in searing, electric heat, and still not be warm enough.
“Listen,” Atsushi says, his voice urgent and unsteady. “I have something to tell you.”
Akutagawa leans in closer, as if to listen, and Atsushi takes a deep, bracing breath.
“I–”
But he’s cut off by a nearby scream.
First one, then another, then more, rising as if in a chorus. For a moment, Atsushi blinks dumbly like a startled animal before reality rushes back to him.
“The Ability User,” he says, not proud of how gravelly his voice comes out.
“What?”
“The hallucinations. That’s why everyone’s screaming. The mission, remember?”
It takes several long seconds before understanding dawns on Akutagawa’s face and he nods resolutely.
“Let’s go, then.”
He conjures Rashoumon from his coat and lets go of Atsushi’s hand, bracing for battle. The loss of Akutagawa’s touch feels, inexplicably, like an amputation.
The battle that follows, if Atsushi can even call it that, is swift and decisive. While the hallucinatory Ability has breadth, capable of affecting hundreds at a time, it lacks much in the way of power. For fighters trained as well as Atsushi and Akutagawa, breaking its hold is simple, and incapacitating the Ability User even simpler. Even the hand-off to law enforcement is perfectly smooth.
So while he remains uninjured and successful by all measures, Atsushi nevertheless aches in a way he can’t explain. It’s a phantom limb pain, a mixture of hurt and of absence, a sense that something essential has been taken from him.
But then, without so much as a word, Akutagawa joins Atsushi at the edge of the cordoned crime scene and takes his hand again.
There’s an undeniable rightness, a wholeness, to their joined hands, but still Atsushi hesitates. Turning to Akutagawa, Atsushi finds his expression unreadable, cast into uncanny relief by the flashing lights of the police car in the dark.
“There’s no need to keep up our cover anymore,” Atsushi begins carefully. “We’ve completed the assignment.”
“That’s correct,” Akutagawa answers, tone perfectly even.
“But you’ve, uh… you’ve taken my hand again.”
“I have.”
“Why?”
Akutagawa shoots him a glare even colder than the December chill.
“You claim to be a detective, don’t you? Draw a conclusion.”
But if Atsushi is honest with himself, Dazai and Ranpo are the only Agency members with actual skill as detectives. Atsushi’s talent lies not in careful, methodical thought; where a true detective would plan, Atsushi simply does.
So, playing to his strengths, Atsushi takes action. In the only way he can think to.
He cradles Akutagawa’s cheek with careful reverence and kisses him like there’s no tomorrow.
Akutagawa’s lips are cold and dry from the winter air, but Atsushi doesn’t mind, not when Akutagawa’s hands come up to fist in Atsushi’s parka, yanking him closer with an insistent strength.
When they at last pull back, Akutagawa is breathing so hard that he’s nearly panting. Atsushi isn’t faring much better.
“What was that you said at the start of the night?” Atsushi teases. “About how this cover was such an awful idea?”
Akutagawa growls low in his throat before surging forward and kissing the smirk right off Atsushi’s mouth.